


all that we are allowed

by lavendre



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Coming of Age, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendre/pseuds/lavendre
Summary: Nanase is right about most things -- it doesn't mean Matoba has to like it.
Relationships: Matoba Seiji & Nanase, Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	all that we are allowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Warnings for off-screen murder and mentions of a dead child -- unrelated to each other, and pretty brief.

* * *

When they start to notice each other, it’s at just the right time.

“And you?” Seiji asks. He waits a beat too long. “Will you go too?”

Nanase’s head bows and her glasses slip further down her face. He doesn’t think he’s asked anything wrong but -- everyone’s been moving away from him over the last couple days and he might be young but he knows a sentencing when he sees one. His father lies dead in another room and a cloud’s descended over the compound. Not for too much longer, he suspects. They’ll have to cremate him. The clan will have to go ahead with plans they hadn’t hoped to use.

There are roles he will have to step into, whether he’s ready or not.

He turns to leave but Nanase’s hand catches his shoulder. He’s tall enough now that she has to reach up. Seiji thinks it was only a couple years ago when her hands were smaller than his, and now when he turns into her grip his own can cover the cool back of her hand and then some.

His fingers curl. He waits.

“No,” she says, voice gruff. She stands straight. “No. I will remain.”

Nanase’s kimono is dark and she’s a narrow line against the wall, back as straight as the beams behind her. She always stands this way. A lifetime spent among other imposing men and the monsters that hunt them, she’s come out of all the scares alright, he supposes.

“Cheers,” she says boredly, and clinks glasses with the clansmen beside her. She turns to him next.

“You don’t have to be happy but everyone is watching,” she murmurs. She has rogue on her lips for once, and smells lightly of perfume, so everything is very serious. Seiji knocks glasses with her too.

They’re alike, in any case. A lot of what he knows comes from what she’s shared and what he’s observed. He knows he’s different than his father and so are the times. Nanase’s not oblivious to any of it.

_You’re not supposed to be here because you weren’t invited,_ she groused at him once.

And so he took to hiding at the fringes and wore masks at parties.

_Don’t reveal your hand unless you’ve already won._

And so he tried to share the least amount of information to avoid the largest amount of scandal.

_Come to me if something has happened and you don’t know what to do._

And so he bows his head to his elders and betrays them too. When an assignment goes wrong and someone winds up dead, he shows up at her door. It’s not his fault. He can’t say he doesn’t know what happens now but underneath the fury he starts to feel the first traces of fear.

“Nanase.”

“Matoba-kun.”

She looks tired and she’s still in her suit when she slides the door back to greet him. She takes in his appearance and crumpled clothes, the smell of something burning. He’s seventeen. He’s dislocated his shoulder and there’s blood under his nails; he knows fear makes people desperate but he had never expected the knife. He’s never experienced treason.

Together, they gather some men in the dead of night and dump the body in a river. It’s sunk with stones so it takes a long while to be found.

Three months later the half-eaten corpse washes up on a bank, the ropes mysteriously cut from its limbs, like a youkai fished it out. The body is identified by local law enforcement. He’s a suspect but so is everyone else.

Across the room, after he’s settled at his desk to resume his work -- he’s getting closer to the age where agreements will be bound in his name, there’s a stamp for it and everything -- Nanase brings him some tea and tylenol, and they talk mildly about what extracurricular he should take for his last year in high school while he reads over a real estate agent’s profile and considers selling the house.

  
Before that, there are other incidences that make him turn to her, and a small handful where she turns too.

The case that makes her look at him twice is also the day he spends camped out in a yard with Natori-san, trying to keep a youkai from killing him.

“This isn’t a trick, right,” Natori says. He always has a particularly wounded or suspicious expression -- today it’s the latter -- but Seiji is beginning to suspect it’s just the look Natori dons when he comes around. He fumbles with an ofuda in his hands, uncomfortable -- how obvious it is to Seiji that Natori doesn’t know how to proceed with or without him -- before stubbornly holding his gaze. “You’re going to help,” he confirms.  
  
“That’d be an ugly trick to pretend when it’s your life on the line,” he says without bite. Natori still doesn’t look satisfied. “Yes,” he says point-blank, and Natori’s shoulders sag in relief.

“Tomita Haruomi,” he says. Natori turns his hands palm up so Seiji can better see the lacerations along the lines of his wrists. “My classmate was in danger and I just reacted. I know it was reckless but I don’t understand why a youkai would ever consider going after someone like him --”

The world narrows to a quiet tunnel but Natori’s mouth still moves and Seiji still listens.

_You found it,_ he thinks. The most unimportant person in this particular mess.

He’s not panicked but it means the stakes are higher now. Three people will suffer if he fails.

It’s only after, when Natori’s lying in the grass unconscious and their tools are scattered around them like some new age teens engaged in play rituals, he starts to get a sense of how wrong this could have ended.

Nanase’s shiki were plenty strong on their own, but they were also backed by the strength of the Matoba and all the magic that was shared between them. This was luck, he knows. Lucky for him and her both that Natori’s awful consideration for people he needn’t concern himself with are the ones that they should have looked to all along.

“Shuuichi-san,” he calls. _Shuuichi_ , he says again, crouching down in the grass to shake him carefully by the shoulders, but Seiji’s words only stir the hair over his cheeks, he doesn’t move, and his skin is clammy and hot from more than just the afternoon sun. Seiji sits back on his heels and considers.

“You’re lucky I’m here,” he tells his unconscious body, but Natori doesn’t act like he’s heard him, and Seiji’s more focused on how to get his dead weight onto his back and into the house than whatever agitated expression he may have made in response.

But still, he can’t help but think on it; like all exorcists, old or young, Natori’s a magnet for trouble.

When Natori is settled at home and everything’s blown over -- including the offer that he doesn’t know how to accept or reject so chooses not to acknowledge even though his mind seems obsessed with replaying it -- he brings Nanase a carefully sealed jar that evening and sets it down in the middle of a large desk. It settles with a clink and then moves once, vindictively, on its own. It’s a relief to not have the weight in his possession any longer.

Nanase turns it around in her hands curiously, then looks at him under the rim of her glasses. There’s tea steaming from a large pot on a hot pad and she pours them both a cup before settling back in her office chair. “What is this?”

“The remains of your missing servant. It possessed Natori-san and was harassing him.” He pauses. “Just so you’re aware, he has a classmate by the name of Haruomi.”

Nanase’s quiet. Her stillness would be mistakable for panic in anyone else, he thinks. “I had wondered what you were up to recently. And the youkai that’s in this jar..?”

“It ate what was left,” he says smoothly, and doesn’t want to elaborate.

By the end she’s displeased, and Seiji knows it, but it doesn’t matter if she’s angry because it was in his best interest too that the incident quietly resolve itself or be resolved by him. No one will know that she made a mistake, or that anyone was hurt, because between the two of them he needs her on his side as much as she needs him to become a head and confidant who follows through.

“Is Natori-san alright?” she asks, later.

He marks his page in a school book with a finger and looks up. “Exhausted, but fine. He’ll recover quickly.”

“It’s not like you to go out of your way to help someone else,” she says carefully, and he knows she’s digging, but for all her concerns this one strikes him as nearly cruel, and the resemblance between two conversations in the same day is making his skin itch. He could offer an entire defense, but it’s late, and it’s likely that this will pass the both of them by so quickly they’ll never really remember what there was to be upset about. Some transparency here is important.

“It wasn’t just him who was in danger,” he says flatly.

Nanase says nothing.

They both need someone they can trust.

Her confidence in him never wanes, which means she’s present at every event in his life that changes him in sometimes barely perceptible ways -- and the ascension, when it’s his turn to become his father and a target and a face for an entire organization for two distinct worlds, she’s the first to step into place on his right, the first who he looks out at through the spell-cloth on his face and sees the exact same way as before.

It makes him feel relieved to find no monster immediately lurking on the other side. 

But this will certainly be the time when people start revealing themselves as _something else._

When she says she’s proud, and steps in front of him to bow, silver hair falling over her shoulders and revealing the nearly translucent skin of her neck, Seiji can no longer attribute all of his winnings to his own cleverness. Nanase is taking responsibility without betraying his pride, of which he’s developed plenty since he was named heir, since he was a child, really, and knew he was powerful because everyone told him he was, and partially because over the years he came to realize she -- and everyone else -- only saw half or a quarter of what he did. 

Partially, she’s near sighted. Partially, they really do come from different bloodlines -- he can’t say she’s _not_ family though; like anyone else in the wings of the Matoba, Nanase belongs there too.

The other fact is this: the Nanase clan has always been in the care of the Matoba. They have never been without the partnership of the other.

“Thank you for your support through all these years,” he says calmly.

Nanase reverts to her full height and smiles respectfully, but her smile is pinched, and not even she can conceal the nervous energy all the clansmen feel tonight. Though they should be relieved, everyone knows he’s cut from a different cloth than his father -- he’s hard edges in all the places where the previous head was soft.

“Matoba Seiji,” she starts, “we’re yours to command.”

If he’s honest, which he isn’t much of these days and won’t be for future occasions out of necessity, pride, and a number of other factors -- he’s nervous, too.

  
(if he’s even more honest, there are only two people in his world he can think of that would suspect he doesn’t always like what he does and not condone him for it.

one of them holds him at arm length, and the other doesn’t hold him at all.

but regardless he’s come to appreciate what distance can allow for; they are, after all, all exorcists and those bonds never really disappear.)

  
Not even six months after he carries the curse of his clan, the youkai comes for his eye.

During his first hospital stay, Nanase settles in a bedside chair in the room and sorts through manila folders with thin black lines at the bottom of their pages, and tells him where to sign when the strain of reading forces tears from his eyes. There’s a stamp and a particularly nice pad of ink in the drawer of his desk at the main compound; he didn’t think he’d miss it. Maybe he’s still a child after all, or maybe some things are destined to always simply be unpleasant.

“You can do something else,” she says later, exasperated.

A nurse brings him lunch and he eats without complaint, but still -- sleep evades him.

He hasn’t lost, but also -- _he’s lost._

_Don’t get caught_ was the first rule of the game.

There was an ancestor in the Edo period who’s luck was so terrible that while he made enemies with everyone and the youkai never stole his right eye, it did rob him of his vision. His legacy was such that while he was a man possessed with great power he could never channel it as openly as those who came before him and was notorious for nearly costing the Matoba the greatest of their investments. What was curious was that a plan was elected to keep him alive until a heir apparent showed; he chose a representative for himself outside of his inner circle that was knowledgeable and also content to live executing orders that he issued. Still, clan procedure was more militant then and his representative did not have the fortune of turning away when danger arrived.

Nanase may sit beside him now but the thought crosses his mind, more often now than before, that she is privy to more than most. She could wound him grievously if she chose.

That’s the source of his confusion: history may repeat itself but there is no accounting for what will change or stay the same.

  
Eventually though, as he always knew she would -- she makes him hesitate.

“He’s starting to become a problem,” Nanase says.

“What,” Matoba says, not looking up.

“Natori-san,” she specifies unnecessarily, and slides the curtain back. “You’re going to have to make him listen.”

His fingers clench along the length of the bamboo brush. He finishes the stroke, slightly imperfect with his hesitance, and draws his hand away from the paper before the damage can continue. His handwriting has always been legible but never perfect, and even now the character attributed for metal is askew.

He glances out toward the sliding door and listens to the call of birds just beyond, and considers Nanase’s words, if he had ever been anything but. There have been plenty of times where Natori’s existence seemed like it was pre-destined to be the foil to his. Every heir to the Matoba remembers the stories of how the original great clans fell, and the loss of the Natori has been felt and mourned for decades like a dead child.

Nanase doesn’t give him time to think for too long. She holds out a partially burned shikigami, missing half its body. It squirms and smolders in his grip when he takes it, still operating under orders from its master.

“Hm,” he says. “Where did you find this?”

“I pulled it off someone’s collar. He’s getting stronger, to send them so far unnoticed.”

They run the gamut of meeting and not meeting and most of the glimpses Seiji catches of Natori these days are of his face plastered on glossy magazines -- he’s the big deal, small town actor everyone cheers for or dreams of becoming -- or the back of his head as he intentionally finds a corner to stand in at every party their paths may cross. Still, he can imagine the look he may wear when Seiji catches him later: surprise, betrayal, and the ever present confusion. That will likely not have changed, but his methods are confident in their aggression.

_You’re always making improvements when I’m not looking._

It makes him bitter, if he’s honest, that he couldn’t draw Natori in. He’d be safer, maybe even happier with him -- with the Matoba second, because they would both hopelessly conspire against everyone else and be good at it, but joint contributions are laughably where Natori draws the line. Matoba doesn’t really understand all the hesitance, but maybe that comes from doing everything alone. Natori can continue to resent everyone else for choosing in his confusion, but Seiji knows better.

He hasn’t been that unfortunate, or unlucky really at all.

Nanase’s expression softens into something exasperated. Matoba tries to keep the veneer in place but the motion’s lost because she’s caught him and he won’t turn away first. “Feigning indifference? Oh come on, you had hoped for this.”

“What do you think I should do,” he muses, not really asking. He turns the shikigami over in his hands, even as it struggles to free itself and return to its master. He flattens it between his palms.

“You could scare him. Though my impression is that he’s already angry if he’s daring to snoop. You may let the Natsume boy be for a while and Natori’s tantrum will settle, too.”

“Ha. But will he _actually_ do anything?” He smiles, sincere, and pushes himself up and away from the low desk, feels the sleep in his legs from being still for too long. 

Outside, he can hear the chimes by the front entrance, the sound carried on the breeze, and tire tracks in the driveway as someone shows up for work. He’d rather be out than here, but he’s always been a little dramatic and vindictive when presented with things he doesn’t want to hear and it seems to get worse with age that he feels compelled to draw his bow and start a fight. That’s all hypothetical though, of course. He has no intentions of changing tactics now.

“It’s a nice day outside for Natori to try and pick a fight,” he says instead.

He opens his hand and lets the shikigami go.

He makes no move to follow it.

“Seiji,” Nanase says gently, and he pretends not to hear the consolation in her voice. It’s too late for anyone to tell him to chase what he wants so he ignores her when she steps closer, backing away to change his slippers for sandals by the door, the sudden tension making a knot well in his throat because no one has ever allowed him this, and now he cannot even allow himself.

He inclines his head, eyes slanting toward his desk and the unfinished work there. The ink is still shiny and wet and it will be a while before it’s dry enough to continue. Whether this had been brought to his attention or not, he has plenty of other things to attend to, other people and their ambitions to worry about.

“Come to think of it, what are you here for?” he asks coolly. 

Nanase says nothing, back still against the wall, even smaller than she was the last time he really thought about it, though then their positions were reversed and someone had actually died. She follows him with her eyes, not really pleading, not actually moving at all, and he imagines that if she cared, she’d leave. She'd take it all back.

“I am here for the Matoba,” she says calmly. Her watch winks at him when she crosses her arms. She breathes in, out. A beat. “Like always.”

“I know,” he responds. “I _know_ you are.”

“You should talk with him, later perhaps,” she continues. “You know Natori will reason if you keep your cool.”

He can’t help but laugh. “Did that work out well for you?”

“I don’t advise him or share your history. That’s your business. And he knows I’m not you,” she snaps.

“Oh. Is that all.”

Matoba pulls his umbrella from the coat closet and bends the top down toward his chest, latching the lock at the top, and it’s like someone’s drawn his spirit to bow -- all the tension has tangled itself in his chest and he feels like it’s about to burst. He slides the door open, and the air that hits him is breezy and cool but not cool enough. Later, it may storm.

“Are you leaving?” Her legs are illuminated by a square of light as she steps forward.

“The car will be here shortly. Did you forget our appointment? I won’t keep anyone waiting,” he says, looking at her face but not the blankness he put there, before striding through the door, down the steps, and out into the cool yellow of the morning.

He has gotten good at recognizing the perfect distance to stay unaffected. But still. He’s a little angry at what she’s starting. He’s a little less angry at what he’s starting.

_Did you forget? You can betray someone else’s expectations, but not mine._

If she’s suggesting his wants are her first concern, he wonders why no one told him his heart was something he should keep.

**Author's Note:**

> I was so happy to see someone had requested Nanase & Matoba fic and had a lot of fun putting this together.
> 
> One of the final lines, a variation of _draw his gaunt spirit to bow_ is from Joanna Newsom's _Leaving the City_ , which I liked very much.
> 
> Happy Chocolate Box <3


End file.
